


peroxide, exorcise me

by crestfaller



Series: if only everything was fine [2]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Injury, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Hurt Barry Allen, Late Night Conversations, Light descriptions of violence, M/M, Protective Barry Allen, Protective Leonard Snart, Tattoos, Whump, adoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crestfaller/pseuds/crestfaller
Summary: Barry wants to help. Always does. Len's pretty sure that's what is going to be the death of them both.Or, Len’s cleaning up the aftermath of Barry’s blood on the door and the walls and the floor, and his night is just getting longer and longer and longer.
Relationships: Barry Allen/Leonard Snart
Series: if only everything was fine [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2070843
Comments: 8
Kudos: 100





	peroxide, exorcise me

**Author's Note:**

> T for language. 
> 
> this is a continuation of "getting back to fine". I'd recommend reading it first, because that explains how we got to this point, but I suppose the tags kind of get you most of the way there.

They don’t have enough peroxide. 

Len’s scrubbing, frantic, his arms quaking like he’s being electrocuted whenever he stops, trying to get the blood off the walls and the floor. He was too liberal with the bleach on the exterior door, rookie mistake, stupid, stupid, stupid, but god knows how long Barry had been lingering outside before he came in. It looked like a leaky faucet of blood dripped down his door and puddled on his front step, and the moment Len saw it he lashed out at it as though it was the thing that had hurt him. In the process, he managed to forget about everything on the _other side_.

A container of bleach later, lemon juice and soap, and now two bottles of peroxide, and he’s only cleaned the bathroom and about half of the hallway. It’s not enough.

The apartment still smells like the violence of an alleyway mugging. Len’s playing music to try to block out the noise of his grating scrub brush across the floor and other various curses he’s muttering, but all he can hear is Barry’s breathing as blood filled his mouth. The gasps and whimpers every time Len pulled too hard at his torn skin, and the sound of his head constantly thudding against the wall because he could barely keep his eyes open, keeping a metronome of _hurry up, Len, hurry up and help him or he’s going to bleed to death right in front of you._

 _Scrub, dammit_. _Quit_ _thinking_. This isn’t fine motor skills, no stitching, no taping. This is just push, push with all your might, and get the blood out of the goddamn walls. 

Len’s sweating but he’s freezing, he took off his sleep-shirt but his skin is scorching, and the burn of chemicals in the air sizzles. His hands are raw from the soap and chemicals and blood, he didn’t bother with gloves like an idiot, and now his knuckles are purple and blistered. 

At least the stinging in his hands is something to focus on. A little pain to take his mind away from everything else. To stop him from just grabbing his Cold Gun and forging his own road for vengeance. To stop him from calling Lisa and asking her how the hell she cleaned up his blood without freaking out. To stop him from doing something stupid and reckless — picking up too much impulsivity from Barry, fuck it all — just to get out of his head. The stinging, Len vows, is fine enough distraction for now. 

After another few minutes Len throws the scrub brush into the bucket and sits back on his haunches. It’s like nothing’s changed, there’s still red all down the floor and scraps of Barry’s suit all around them — God he thought he’d gotten all those with the broom — and the red door. The door taunts him, the sound of Barry screaming like Len drove a knife into his gut rings in his ears like tinnitus. It’d already dried, so Len figured he’d get to it last, try to clean what was still a bit damp, but now he regrets letting it stay. It’s sprayed like a gash to his safehouse, even his home is bleeding out. 

This is just the blood that made it to the floors and the walls, but what about the red that stained his clothes, the inside of Barry’s suit? The blood that was all over Len as he tried to hold Barry up, running down his hands and arms as he tried to stitch Barry’s side? What about all the blood he lost before he even got to Len’s door? His healing barely kept him awake this time. Restored enough blood to let him keep bleeding continuously without dying, which Len isn’t sure is a miracle or a curse. 

“Hah,” he gasps, and drops his buzzing hands to the floor. The light wood moldings are now a bronzed red, and he passes his hand along them gentle. Rests his forehead against the wall and closes his eyes for a moment. He’s exhausted, but adrenaline and sheer rage is keeping him upright. He wants all of it gone, but there’s still so much to go. 

He brings his hands up to rub his face, blinking bleary to keep himself awake, but stops as he watches pink suds run down his forearms over his tattoos. The color isn’t blood; it isn’t, but he jumps like it is and swipes it off of him, it spattering against the floor in a spray. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles. “Just how much did you bleed, Scarlet?” 

He’s wheezing a little, his eyes burning, and he’s wound like a coil. He can’t get rid of the panic that gripped him the moment he saw Barry at his door, no matter how hard he tries to beat soap into the floor. 

And he’s out of the _fucking_ peroxide. 

Len picks up the bottle and studies it, tries to crush it in his fist but it doesn’t give, and instead chucks the bottle whip-fast across the room. It ricochets across the corner and knocks over the plant Len had successfully kept alive for years until Barry got his hands on it and now has to keep replacing. It falls on the floor, the pot shattering in the process, and Len cringes. 

Picking himself up, he wrings out his hands and goes to get the broom again to clean up this new mess. 

“Dammit,” Len mutters to himself. He drops the dustpan on the floor with a thud and begins to sweep, when there’s a touch to his arm. 

Len leaps a foot in the air, whirling around to punch out whoever dared break in and sneak up on him on this hellborn night, and is met with Barry. And it’s late, it’s too late, and his mind is too mixed up, because he thinks for a moment that Barry is a ghost and he died in the bedroom and now he’s here to tell Len that he failed, and it’s Len’s fault, and the whole thing sends a shock that’s got him holding his breath. 

“Whoa, hey, sorry-sorry.” Barry slurs, raising his hands up, reaching forward and puts his hands warm on Len’s bare skin. Smooths his wide palms over the tops of Len’s shoulders, curling around the tattoos, and Len’s heart is so loud he can probably feel it. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

 _Fuck, Jesus, fuck,_ he bites the words back and manages just — “what’s the matter, why are you out of bed?” 

Barry’s touches are all careful but firm, his hands long a comfort and Len sighs. However Barry’s also holding onto Len because he _has_ to hold onto something, it’s clear, or else he wobbles, leaning heavy even with the extra grips. Barry’s bedraggled and exhausted, too. 

“I thought you might’ve heard me in the hall,” Barry says, and there’s this knit to his eyebrows as he looks Len over like he’s worried about him and Len almost laughs, except there’s something about where Barry’s gaze travels that sucks out any humor like a vacuum. Because Len knows exactly what the next words are going to be out of Barry’s mouth and he wants to reach forward and cover his mouth before he even utters a single syllable. 

“I was wonderin’ how I could help?”

And there it is. And Len can’t quite keep the incredulousness at bay. 

“Are you kidding, Barr?” Len asks, and he knows it’s too curt, too _brisk,_ ‘cause this is _so typical Barry_ , but Len also cannot believe he would try this right now. “You can help by going back to bed.” 

“This looks like a lot of work, and you…” Barry looks over Len’s face, and he shifts, or maybe he’s staggering, Len’s not sure but he seems to bounce his train of thought. “And I don’t know if you know this, but I am pretty fast.” He’s got that cocksure grin on his face, and it makes Len’s stomach roil. 

“You do any of your _speeding_ right now and I will ice you to the bed for the next century.” 

“I can be quick without the super speed.” 

“Oh really?” He wants to ask Barry to prove it, pick up the dustpan without bending over like an old man, but he also does not want to see another flinch across his face. Doesn’t want another goddamn ounce of pain, whimper, whine, or cry to come from his lips tonight. Just looking at him puts an ache so deep in Len’s bones it startles him. Sympathetic pain was never his bit — last time he felt that sympathetic whip he jumped in front of Lewis’ belt, making sure if he was going to see blood it would be his own — but looking at Barry _hurts_. 

Black and blue coat his body from his neck to under Barry’s sweatpants, and the bruises are wide and sick and vibrant like frostbite. The wraps around his body, because Len is always one for going a little overkill, makes him look like he broke his back he’s so gauzed up. The blood vessels in his eyes are torn and broken — probably from being squeezed by the python-like-meta — so the green of his irises are marred, replaced with this split and vile gaze. 

Len knows all those wounds were once torn open, and he can barely keep himself upright because he was so carved apart and bleeding earlier. No remorse was shown when his meta tried to _kill_ him. Len has to squash the desire to grab his Cold Gun right now and go hunting for Vine-Viper or whatever the fuck Cisco called her right this minute. 

A sheepish chuckle, and Barry doesn’t push it. Instead he frowns at the fallen plant. “Aw, poor thing,” Barry moans the loss with a pout. “What happened?”

“An accident.”

“I see that. Here —”

Barry begins to bend over to pick up the bottle Len threw, but Len puts his palm flat against his chest and halts him. Reaches down to the floor himself, stretching his whole arm span to keep his hand on Barry’s chest, and picks up the bottle to set it on the end table. 

“Go back to bed, Scarlet.” 

“I want to help,” he protests. “I can help.” 

The words make Len want to unleash all the tension in his body in a single punch. Ice over the skies and interrogate them as to why someone whose natural tendency is to help people is also the most contrite man he’s ever met. 

“What? Why’re you looking at me like that?” Barry asks. Pushing a little against Len’s hand, trying to move anyway. 

This. _This_ is the problem. The blood and the horror of the night left its mark, yes, that’s a scar on his mind that will outlast Len’s own marked-up body; but at the end of this, what is chipping at Len’s teeth with an ice pick is this endless guilt Barry’s got fueling his every action. This _shame_. The crying in the shower as though it was a confessional and Barry was about to be read his last rites. Over the years Barry has gone from the overconfident vigilante with the too big grin and the plates-for-eyes despite all the gritty work he was involved in, to this _penitent_ that seems to think if he’s not helping 24/7 he’s not worth the space he takes up on this planet. It’s what propels him to take risks that he’d never ask another person to take. It’s what’s going to get him killed. 

“Who’s out there telling you that you’re not enough, Barry?” 

The question clearly throws him, and there’s this red that starts to splatter his cheeks and chest. Barry’s got all kinds of blushes, Len never knew a blood rush could be so expressive until he met Scarlet whose name suits him in more ways than one. When Len whispers compliments to him or makes clear he’s pleased, Barry blushes like a tomato ripens; slow, starting at his cheeks and nose until it floods him whole in bright warmth. Otherwise red rises up his neck and all over his face in an instant, his face hot like a rocket’s takeoff, but that’s usually when Len embarrasses him or says something a bit too raunchy in public just to get the reaction. 

When Barry’s pissy, it splotches across his throat and face and chest. It’s unpredictable, and he acts almost asthmatic, reaches for his neck and looks away from Len in jerky movements. 

“It’s not — I —” a sound catches in his throat, and when he steps back he falters and Len grabs his arm to steady him, which he shakes off. “I’m not decrepit —” he stammers. 

“I know.” Still, Barry wavers, caught up in a blood rush, dizzy. “Barry, just —” Len tries to touch him again, and this time Barry allows it, resigned. Looking up at Len under his long eyelashes and letting Len step him back until his calves hit the chair and he falls down with a slump. 

Once in the chair, he looks so small. His elbows jut against his knees as he puts his head in his hands, palms to his eyes. Len cups the back of his neck, rubbing his thumb along Barry’s hairline. 

“You need to give yourself more than two hours, Red.” 

Barry’s impatience is ramping up right when his body needs it to start going down. Usually Barry can recognize when he is too roughed up to continue, and yes, helping Len clean up is not the same exertion as taking down a meta, but this kind of self-flagellation is a bit much. Even for Barry. 

“It’s just cleaning up. I’m a CSI, I can help with blood clean up. And it’s _mine_. You shouldn’t have to deal with it.” 

He almost says something stupid. About how this doesn’t just feel like Barry’s blood, about how Barry looked at him blankly for over an hour while he cleaned up and Len got to feel it run all over his hands and down his arms and seep into his pants and somehow _Barry’s_ blood started to feel a lot like his own. Because Len has not completely lost his mind, so it seems, he keeps his mouth shut on all that. Instead he says, 

“I know how to clean up blood, too, Scarlet.” 

The whys and the hows he learned to is better left not discussed, but he certainly has cleaned up plenty of blood in his time. 

“Two people are better than one.”

“Not this time. You can barely walk —”

“That’s not true, I can —” Defiant, an expression Len has seen a thousand times behind a cowl and without it, Barry’s bloody eyes spark. Before Len can stop him, he plants his hands and pushes himself up, only to seethe at the movement the moment he gets so much as an inch off the chair. 

“Barry!” Len snaps, too frantic, his voice that same near-shriek he had at the door. Bile rises in his throat as he pushes Barry back down into the chair by his shoulders. 

He can’t listen to any more pain, he can’t do it. His heart’s in his wrists, his fingers, hammering against Barry’s shoulders and then his cheeks as Len presses his hands to the sides of Barry’s face. 

“Stop it. Stop. There’s nothing for you to prove, there’s nothing you have to do, there’s nothing life or death that requires the Flash right now. The only thing that needs to get done is you need to get your ass in bed so you can heal, do you get me?” 

This is the closest Len’s come to begging in a long time. He doesn’t beg. If people aren’t going to make the smart play, do the right thing, then pleading isn’t going to help. He tried pleading _once_ with Lewis, and the immediate beating ceased only to be paid back with some of Lisa’s teeth later. Debts earned by begging have got an insurmountable interest on them, end up not being worth the cost every time. For Scarlet, though, he almost lets a _please_ slip, because he cannot fucking handle anymore of this. 

Barry’s eyebrows are furrowed, lips quivering. He’s not about to cry, but there’s something there. “I know, I know, I just…” There’s this mournful look, and Len grimaces. An apology. Barry, the penitent, is about to open his mouth and say another sorry and Len — “I’m —” covers his mouth. 

“That’s enough.” 

Barry looks frozen. Staring at him with those sick red eyes, eyelids drooping, and he looks apologetic even if Len won’t let him get the words out.

Len removes his hand from Barry’s mouth to cup his cheek, brushing his knuckles along the bone. Soothing. Trying to be kind. “Enough of that. You don’t need to be sorry. I don’t want you to be sorry.” At the end of the day, Barry trusted him enough to come to him. At least he went to _someone_ , and he doesn’t want to encourage Barry to try to deal with anything on his own. Even though coming to _Captain Cold_ seems like an irony only the Time Masters would have fun indulging. 

With his free hand, Len begins combing through Barry’s hair, trying to defuse the situation. Calm Barry, calm himself. There are many ways to slow Barry down, and he’s not always amenable to all of them, but he’s usually good with having Len’s hands in his hair. And Len doesn’t mind playing with it, the soft strands slip through his fingers, always bouncing back into it’s previous position.

This seems to work. Barry takes a deep breath, lets all his wound up tensities unfurl until he’s relaxed in Len’s hands. 

“Okay,” Barry nods. “Okay, okay, okay,” he mumbles, whether in a ramble or a mantra Len’s not sure, but he lets his jaw wag without stopping him again. Barry reaches his hand to place over Len’s own, and because of the blisters Len tenses. Barry recoils, grabbing for Len’s wrist and pulling his hand away to look at it. 

“Oh, Lenny,” he whispers, distressed. “Your hands.” 

Len shrugs. “I’m alright.” 

Barry thumbs Len’s knuckles, cautious, his nail barely tracking around the forming welts. His gaze flickers back to Len’s. “I have boxes of gloves. I’m literally swimming in them, y’know, I wear like 100 a day. There’s only about 4,000 in my work bag alone. Just take a pair, okay?” 

“Whatever you say, sweetheart,” Len says, mostly kidding with the endearment. Partially modeling what would have been an exemplary response to his initial request of ‘ _go to bed_ ’ what feels like forever ago. 

A sad smile twitches at Barry’s mouth. “Haven’t I graduated out of pet names, yet?” 

Len grins, or maybe it’s more of a grimace. He tries to sound teasing when he says, “Not for a long shot, baby.” Barry snorts and this time, Len truly laughs. Tired, too. Everything’s a little funny, a little irritating, a little too much when tired. “Why are you so goddamn stubborn?” Len asks. 

“Y’know, you’re not the first to ask that.”

“Could you quit trying to make me the last?” 

They’ve done their best to ignore the red door behind them, like children with monsters they fear in the closet, under the bed, in the living room passed out in the beer-stained chair. They’ve kept their fingers crossed, blankets over their eyes, held their breath so that they don’t coax it out of its spot. But it’s not avoidable forever. 

“You almost died tonight.” 

The sound of laughter promptly dies. Barry breathes slow, and begins clenching and unclenching his hands which seems to take more effort than it used to, his hands so fucked up and aching. 

“I didn’t mean to do this,” Barry admits. “I wasn’t thinking, I just wanted to be somewhere safe and I shouldn’t have done this to you.” 

Len furrows his eyebrows, and for a moment, his heart’s running like a gunshot in his ears. This was stupid, tactless, thoughtless. In Len’s most rash, unsympathetic thoughts, he sums up the evening as Barry scared him half to death because he was too proud and reckless as always. In some ways Len _is_ enraged. His bin is filled with scraps of Barry’s Flash suit he has to burn, and this night, this night will linger for far longer than Len can get rid of the evidence. He hears the words “ _let me go_ ”, and for a moment he’d thought Barry was telling him to just let him die, and God, he really is furious. But it just… is not important right now. It doesn’t matter in the end, anyway. 

“And I’m safe,” Len says, toneless. Part of him, part of him can’t quite wrap his head around that. Doesn’t feel like that long ago that when Captain Cold aimed his gun at Barry, he aimed for pain, master of violence in Central City. Now, Barry’s here telling him that he finds Len _safe_. 

His life has only gotten stranger and stranger since the Flash showed up. He should really stop being so surprised. 

Barry’s blushing. “Well, yeah,” he says softly. He won’t meet Len’s eye. 

There will always be a part of Len that wants to rebel at this. A part of Len that wants to duck and run. That wants to take all of Barry’s silly sentiments and crush them, then leave, just to prove he can. To show that Barry shouldn’t harbor such feelings, that such things are a weakness.

But those are ideals learned from Lewis, who’s a haunting Len isn’t sure he’ll ever truly shake but he can fucking ignore him. Nowadays he thinks a bit on what Lisa would say, what Barry and Mick would say, but most of all, ever since the Oculus, Len listens to himself. His own intuitions. No strings. Looking at Barry now, Len knows he doesn’t need another reminder about the cruelty of the world, he’s already a painting of it. And Len doesn’t want to be the thing that drives the point home that the world is cold and people are even colder. 

God, Barry thinks he’s _safe_. And Len’s not sure he’s got it in him to convince him otherwise. Not anymore. 

So he says words that maybe in the morning he will regret, but for right now, he hopes he can live up to them: “As long as I can help it, you’ll always be safe here. So, mission accomplished.” 

The words make Barry blush even brighter, and a small smile plays at his lips — then it drops. “At a cost,” Barry says.

Len shrugs. “Don’t know a thing in this world that doesn’t have one.” 

Another breath, Barry’s gaze still flickering in front of him, trying to piece together his next sentence. His next self-flagellation, half-spirited argument. Len doesn’t let him. 

He lowers to a knee. Barry’s wide-eyed gaze flickers to his, showing complete, undivided attention. Len places a hand on his less injured leg and thumbs along his kneecap. 

“Is that what this is?” Len asks. “You think helping me clean this all up is going to help me forget? Going to make this night better?” Len squeezes his leg, light, making sure not to add to the injury. Rubs his hand along the fabric. “It’s not just going away, Barr. It happened.”

Barry flinches. “And you never forget anything” he says, trying to smile. 

“Even if I could, I think this…” Len starts, but Barry’s got that preemptive cringe, and Len drops the sentence. Len grabs his hand and folds it with his. “It’s alright, Scarlet. I’ve seen my fair share of shit, I’ll be fine.”

“I know you have.” Barry sighs. Takes Len’s hand and brings it to his mouth, his warm breath ghosting over his stinging fingers. “Kind of makes it worse.” Then Barry kisses his knuckles, which makes Len’s skin burn more than any chemical he spilled over the tops of them. 

“I’m okay. Really.” 

“I scared you,” he whispers into the palm of Len’s hand. 

Len is not one to admit he’s scared of anything, but he’s also long stopped denying obvious truths. Len thought a hundred times to call up Doctor Snow or even just a damn ambulance while Barry bled in his arms because he thought he was going to die. Even now, he’s not sure he made the right decision. But he didn’t make the call. Now, they’ve got to deal with the aftermath. 

“A conversation for another time,” he says. Clearly Barry doesn’t think so, but Len moves subjects. Pulls his hand away from Barry’s mouth and passes his hand down Barry’s more severely injured leg, checking for blood. The sweatpants bulge with the wraps, but thankfully nothing that feels like sap against Len’s fingertips. “Bandages on this leg still holding up?”

Barry’s eyebrows hike up. “Think so. My healing’s kicked in to help it along, too.” 

“How ‘bout your side?”

“Your stitches were good. Should be able to take them out in a few hours.”

Len checks for other injuries. His legs were mainly scuffed up with surface wounds by the time Len got him into the shower. The other gash that made him nervous was over Barry’s chest. Some of it is blocked by the gauze around his waist, but there’s a good slash mark that is still visible. Len reaches forward and places his thumb at the beginning of it, strumming it gently. 

“I still think I should have bandaged up this one,” Len says. One of the many ‘shoulds’ that potentially plague this night. 

But Barry shakes his head. “Honestly, I don’t even really feel that one.”

“Not sure that’s a good sign, Barr,” Len says with a laugh, but he eyes the wound, wary. He continues to pet along him, and after awhile he’s just touching. Connecting freckles across his chest, watching the color flood from Barry’s face to his torso — it’s a light blush, he probably still doesn’t have enough blood circulating to make it as bright as it usually is — but the scarlet hue is there. 

“You need me to go to bed,” Barry says. 

“You need you to go to bed,” Len corrects. “And I agree. But first,” Len stretches to reach the end table next to the chair where the plant once resided. It has a small drawer, inside are about 30 protein bars of various types. He pulls open the drawer and grabs a couple, dropping them in Barry’s lap. “Eat, so that you don’t wake up because you’re hungry.” 

“Do you just have those… stashed?” 

Len shrugs — he’s got non-perishable food hidden all around the apartment so Barry’s blood sugar never drops too much, and he’s taken to grabbing a few himself if he’s ever in a rush — but instead of answering he opens one for Barry and shoves it into his hand. 

The act has apparently loosened something in Barry’s depressive thoughts, because he’s staring at Len absolutely awestruck. Len raises an eyebrow in response, waiting for him to say something, because it looks like he wants to, but he doesn’t. Instead, Barry takes a bite, his watchful gaze heavy. 

Len furrows his eyebrows. Now it’s his turn to ask, “why are you looking at me like that?”

Barry swallows, the protein bar probably half-chewed as it scrapes down his long throat. He cocks his head, and keeps opening his mouth and shutting it, which is making Len shifty and twitchy where he crouches. 

A dry laugh comes out of Barry’s mouth. “Gimme a minute, I’m trying to figure out how to answer in a way that won’t piss you off,” Barry says, amused. Len knows exactly what kind of comment it’s going to be and he bristles. 

“I know, I’m just the most fantastic man because I keep some food in a drawer,” he says dryly, nipping that in the bud. “No need to say anything at all, now.” 

Barry laughs, takes another bite of his protein bar. Tips his head back and forth like he’s still trying to think of a response anyway, which the hair on the back of Len’s neck is straight up in anticipation of whatever compliment he gives. Barry likes praise, Len would rather not hear it. 

But it is not praise, at least, not of the sort that Len was expecting, that Barry answers him with. It is:

“I love you.” 

Jesus, the words always seem to come to Barry so _easily_. 

Len glares at him, despite the warm feeling blooming in his chest. Barry’s got a shit-eating grin — so fucking pleased with himself — while he finishes the protein bar with one last large bite and starts unwrapping the next one, eyes never leaving Len’s face. His gaze is far softer and vulnerable than his cocky smile, still tired and in pain, so Len knows he should tread carefully. 

He could say it back. For once, Len is pretty sure that he could muster up the words and sound them out without much protest, actually. He’s becoming a real sap, he thinks, because for the first time the words are actually kind of _nice_ , and the part of him that wants to take a fork to his forearm at them is so small it’s almost negligible. And Barry would probably appreciate hearing it from Len — hell, part of him would probably love it because Len does not say it ever — but then Len realizes what that would mean. How that would play out. Only saying the words on the most horrible of nights. 

Doesn’t seem right.

So he says what he always says: “You know, Flash, there are faster ways to kill me.” 

That seems to be the right response, or at least good enough, because Barry beams. His smile is crayon-drawn, shaky lines but big and wide, all teeth. There’s even a piece of protein bar stuck between his molars, and God he’s just disgusting. What’s even more disgusting is how fond Len feels at something as stupid as the shit in between Barry’s teeth. 

“You always are trying to get me to slow down.”

“Mm, that _is_ true. ”

Barry finishes up his second protein bar, setting the wrappers on the end table, then pats the thing like it’s a pet. All warm affection. Then he puts his palms down on the arms of the chair and starts bracing his knees, trying to find a position he can support himself well enough to stand up, but Len can see he’s struggling to find the right stance. There’s a prickle of sweat on his brow and his posture is shaky, every movement up is also a movement left or right to stabilize. His breathing becomes a bit ragged, and he shuts his eyes tight, and some of the shaking isn’t just from the strain Len can see, but from the frustration. 

“Guess I really can’t walk,” Barry grunts.

Len reaches out, grabs one hand and laces their fingers together, but tenses his arm so that it’s more of a brace. “Nah, baby, you’re doing just fine,” he says. Len puts his other hand on Barry’s uninjured side, a stabilizing grip, and leans forward so that Barry’s free arm can loop around his neck. He becomes a support for Barry to stand, helping as Barry props himself up. 

Then he’s upright, and they’re holding each other hand in hand, Len’s other hand on Barry’s waist and Barry’s arm looped over his shoulder. As though they’re about to waltz. 

“There, now we’re dancing,” Len says. 

Barry nods, breathing easier, his grip on Len a comforting kind of heavy. “Thanks,” he murmurs. Then he looks down and back up and his gaze lingers on Len’s face, who responds with a raised eyebrow and a smile. 

“Never was very good at dancing,” he says. “But I can do this.” He curls his arm tighter around Len’s neck and charges against him to kiss. 

Despite the impulsivity of the act, it’s long and soft. His hand comes up to brush over Len’s scalp, and Len pulls him closer. Wants to pick him up, wants to swallow him whole, has to stop himself from doing any of it because Barry’s too injured to handle anything more than a pass of the hand. Barry’s lips taste like peanut butter from the stupid protein bar, but Len has to say he likes it a lot more than the copper taste of blood these days. Their fingers that are interlaced Len grips tight, red-to-white knuckles, and Barry matches him.

Then it becomes chasing. Barry angles his head, diving deeper, and Len’s hand comes up to brace the back of his neck. Lets go of Barry’s hand, but doesn’t reach for his waist because he’d be touching the worst of the wounds, and Len irrationally thinks his fingers will become blood-slippery and shaky all over again. No, instead he cups Barry’s jaw, feels the tremble of Barry’s mouth as he begins to smile. Len moves his hand up to Barry’s hair and in response Barry lets out this soft sigh, it becoming a moan into Len’s mouth, and Len laughs, pulling away. 

Barry doesn’t let him, “wait” is mumbled against his lips, and then Barry’s kissing him again. Pressed toe-to-toe, in a line all the way up, and Len drags his nails softly across Barry’s nape and he shivers in his grip. 

Barry’s very obvious in his affections, unabashed even when he does know how blatant he’s being. Kissing him now, Len can feel the thrum of electricity start to sing in his veins, a gentle zip to his touch. In bed, the vibrating thing is the most erotic thing on the fucking planet. When they’re kissing, soft like this, it’s incredibly endearing. It doesn’t happen often, but on a night like tonight, where Barry is bone-tired and a little overly-affectionate, it starts up. Barry getting swept up into a buzz — not quite the same tumultuous rhythm he gets during an orgasm — but it’s there and it always makes Len smile. 

But, vibrating is bound to hurt him now, so they have to take a step back. Len cups his jaw and lets Barry place a final kiss in, before he pulls away and smirks at him, and Barry sways, dazed. His eyes are all shiny, healed up a bit more so there’s actual green to the irises now, even though they’re still bloodied. His face is flushed warm, and his freckles are dark against the rosiness of his skin. 

“Don’t you look pretty,” Len says, and Barry tucks his face against Len’s neck. 

“So do you.” Then Barry huffs. “Which is why you’re being annoying as fuck stopping me from kissing you.” 

Len chuckles. “If I thought you could keep yourself from buzzing like a cell phone, I’d let you do whatever the hell you wanted to me.” Len laughs again at Barry’s subsequent groan, and presses a kiss to the top of his head. “C’mon Barr.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” Barry’s going for agitated, Len knows, but it sounds far too weak and quiet. “Time for bed. Okay.” 

This time, Barry is far more compliant. Relaxes in Len’s grip, but doesn’t let go, keeps his arm around Len’s neck as they start to step away. Len continues to block Barry’s sight of the red door, not that he’s is trying to look. Instead, he rests his head on Len’s shoulder and lets himself be led down the hallway and back to the bedroom. Takes Len’s hand and traces around the roughness of it, and Len doesn’t even feel the sharp pain of the blisters anymore. 

The bedroom’s a navy hue in the moonlight. Quiet and a little frosty, there are a dozen blankets on top of the bed, Len can see where Barry left his cocoon. He walks Barry to the mattress and starts checking his bandages, grimacing. He doesn’t know if it’s better to put new ones on already because they can, or if constantly changing them will do more damage. 

“I think it’s fine,” Barry says, giving voice to Len’s thoughts. He raises his arms up a little bit. “I look like the Michelin man already, and like you said, it wasn’t that long ago.” 

A snort. Len deposits Barry on the bed. He will have to get more blankets for himself if he ever lays down, but in all honesty Len’s not sure he’s getting any sleep tonight. There’s still a lot of blood to clean, and he’s pretty sure any sleep wouldn’t be actually _restful_ anyway, even if he’s feeling a little droopy himself. 

They begin to shift. Barry takes a gulp of the water Len had left on the nightstand before he shuffles into the down comforter, re-burrowing himself into the nest of blankets, and meanwhile Len slowly boxes him in. When Barry shifts further into the bed, Len sits on the edge of it, hip almost touching his side, a wall. When Barry lays back, Len leans over him, placing his hands on either side of Barry’s pillows, making canyons in the mattress underneath his palms. A cage. 

When Barry’s head hits the pillow, Len kisses him on the mouth. Because he can. Because it’s warm and good, and makes Barry tip his head back further into the bedding, solidifying his position as in the damn bed. 

Len pulls away and looks at him. His face is a crescent moon in the night, the silver glow lighting up part of his face, and beyond the slope of his nose is shaded in blue. Still innocent and young, even bruised and bloodied and so much more world-weary than the man Len first met. How much longer is Barry going to be able to keep doing this? How long until those powers fade to the point where he can’t just bounce back? What if the next time something like this happens, his heart stops? 

What if no matter what Len does, it’s too late? 

When Len comes out of his own thoughts, his eyes lock on with Barry’s.

“What’re you thinking about?” 

For a moment, Len doesn’t respond. Unsure what to say — to quote Barry, thinking of an answer that won’t piss him off — and Barry’s jaw starts quivering. 

“I’ll tell Cisco and Caitlin in the morning, Len. I promise.” Barry’s mistaking Len’s lack of response as further censuring. He starts stretching himself over, past Len’s bodily barricade, to reach for the nightstand. “In fact, I’ll text Cisco right now, he’s probably —” 

Len captures the hand reaching for his phone, laces it with his fingers, then pins him to the bed. Barry lets out a little ‘oof’ and Len immediately scans him for injuries, for pain, in case this small move had hurt him, but Barry’s free hand comes back around Len’s shoulders in pacification. Barry’s eyes are wide, wide, as he stares up at Len, his mouth a little open. 

He’s so tired, he’s too tired, and even though Len’s been spending all this time trying to get him to go back to bed, he’s clearly been indulging too long in Barry’s antics. 

Leaning down, he kisses Barry’s forehead, and knocks their foreheads together. 

“Lay down, and go to sleep,” he whispers. 

“Okay.” 

His smile is too wide on his face for his mind to be shut off, Len just knows it. 

“Kiss me again?” Barry asks, and it hooks on something in Len like fishing line and he moves without thinking. Leans down and brings his mouth to Barry’s, just brushing. He doesn’t kiss, not yet. Maybe he still has some of his mind. One single brain cell that exhibits some sort of restraint, some sort of self control. 

“You’re lucky I’m so nice and giving,” Len quips. A joke. A scramble for familiarity. 

“Yeah, I really am,” Barry says, soft like ice melting, and it’s too serious and critical and _fucking hell_ , Len’s in so deep there’s no light on either side anymore and yet he can’t find his wherewithal to mind. 

He kisses Barry, a little harder than he means to, but this is just another plan that went off the rails. Another plan that has to be thrown away. Because he can’t stop himself from moving his hands from the bed and cupping Barry’s face, pushing him into the pillows himself. Barry’s wrapping his arms around him, his grip a little strong on Len’s bare skin, but it’s a good strong, it’s a good reminder of all that strength Barry’s got coiled up inside. The kiss is hot and it’s not slow like it should be, and Len wants to cup the back of his head and pour a thousand kisses over his mouth and his cheeks and his jaw and down his throat and — 

He’s kissing Barry like he’s going to die, and that thought alone makes Len stall. Pull back. Back to slow. Barry is not dying, not anymore. Len just needs to map him out here, and then he’ll be asleep like any other night. Not so different. Tonight’s just another night. 

A deep sigh creaks Barry’s bones and is like a breeze against Len’s lips. Instead of slipping away, Barry takes to wrapping his arms around Len in an embrace, but it’s languid, his arms heavy, and Len finds himself being weighted down more than he means to be. 

“Come to bed, Lenny,” Barry murmurs into his skin. Begins running his hand up and down Len’s back. 

“Soon.” Soon is relative, and a half-lie doesn’t embed him with guilt. 

“You said that we’re out of cleaning supplies, so what more can you do tonight anyway?” 

“Just how long did it take you to hobble down the hall?” Len asks, squinting at Barry. Even in the moonlight, his skin darkens with a bit of a blush. 

“Long enough.” Barry’s picked up some of Len’s habits too, to Len’s chagrin. Like telling half-truths. Sins of omission. “What’s the point of going back out there? Tomorrow I can help, too.” 

“Keep saying that and you’re going to wake up tomorrow _duct_ _taped_ to the bed, Barr.”

Barry breezes through the threat, instead takes to rubbing Len’s arm like he has to console _him_ , and that makes Len lurch. “I saw you throw the bottle at the wall. You’re angry and sad and tired, and this can be better in the morning.” Barry says. “It’ll be better in the morning, so just come to bed.” 

“It is morning,” Len protests. It’s late into the night, but it’s morning, and it’s a bad argument but it’s what Len’s got. The longer he is in the bedroom, the longer he does just want to lay down and die for a few hours. 

“How selfish can I be tonight? Can I get you to come to bed now?” Barry asks, a grin stretching across his face as he continues petting Len. Barry has no problem with pleading, so it seems. He doesn’t say please, but it’s in his eyes and the way he draws his hands in circles over Len’s arms and over his back. And Len is not Lewis, clearly, because his first thought is not to lash out or think of a way to get him back, rather, it’s to murmur Barry’s name and almost do as he asks without question. 

“Barr,” Len mumbles. His name just slips out these days. He’s not even all that aware of it, it just crosses his mind and comes out of his mouth and there’s nothing he can do to stop it. 

“Shh, sh, sh,” is Barry’s response, and his wandering hands push down and draw Len closer. Exposing a serious vulnerability to Len’s plans he hadn’t accounted for. Tactical error. Now he’s crowding over Barry as though he’s going to lay on top of him and go to sleep, which is clearly what Barry wants, but it wasn’t what Len had in mind. 

As he lands on Barry’s injured chest, he hisses and starts pushing himself up. 

“Would you be careful of your own damn injuries?”

Barry shushes him again. “I’m not made of glass.” Puts his palm wide in between Len’s shoulder blades, forcing more of Len’s weight on him. “You’re tired. You can’t fix it all tonight, so just come to bed and we’ll —” 

Len seethes at the mention of _we_ , and Barry catches himself. 

“— You. You can get it in the morning.” 

Despite him being sleep-addled, Barry’s making it incredibly difficult for Len to get off of him. Either that or Len really is too weak-tired himself, but he prefers not to think that. Len blames Barry’s hands the most. They’re wide and long fingered and warm against his skin, and Len is this close to being convinced. 

But he’ll go down swinging. “Anyone looks through the window it’s going to look like I murdered someone.”

“Your curtains are closed and your shutters are down.” Barry says, not missing a beat. 

“The lights are on,” Len says, but he lets his head fall on Barry’s shoulder. 

“Not unusual for you,” Barry presses his thumb down the line of Len’s back. The other hand comes to rest on his nape, gingerly, Len doesn’t let just anyone touch him there and Barry knows it, but it feels nice. His skin isn’t on fire anymore, everything soothed over. “And you can’t tell from here.” 

“S’pose that’s true.” His skin not being on fire reminds Len that he’s also gross, covered in dried sweat and dust and everything else. “I’m disgusting —” 

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“I don’t.” Barry cups the back of Len’s head and he grumbles, but allows it. Barry turns so that Len is tucked into his long neck, and Len can feel the bones of his jaw as he speaks. “It doesn’t have to be forever, just, take a rest, okay? There’s nothing you can do now, so just come sleep for a minute.” Barry’s reaching down the bed to grab one of the extra blankets to throw over the both of them, and Len reaches out to help but the grip on the back of his head gets heavier, and for once Len doesn’t fight it. Just presses an open mouthed kiss to Barry’s shoulder. 

“Fine. Just for a little while.” 

“Yay,” Barry cheers, quiet. 

“Stubborn.” 

“S’part of my charm.” 

Len knows Barry’s got a grin on his face. Just to prove it to himself, Len takes his fingers and gingerly touches the line of his mouth, and sure enough, the corners are quirked up. With his other hand he places it on Barry’s chest, just over his heart, his meta heartbeat hammering and strong against his chest. 

“Got all my fingers and toes. Everything’s in its place.” Barry’s words are slurring heavily, exhaustion finally catching up to his ever-running mouth. Barry places his own hand over Len’s on his chest. Squeezes it twice, a pump like his own heartbeat. “Thanks for keepin’ me whole, Cold,” Barry says with a soft laugh. 

Len laughs too. Pats his cheek, way too drowsy for anything more.

“You’re welcome, Scarlet.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays and seasons greetings everyone! Thank you for reading! I hope this time of year is as restful and heartwarming as possible during this strange time.


End file.
